


in your periphery

by lady_peony



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3787219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you are used to living with this, like you are used to carrying your umbrella under your arm, the bow on your back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your periphery

You step into the foyer. 

You pay no mind to the eyes. Wave away the offers of sake with quiet deferral. 

Greetings drop off their lips along your path as you sweep forward with your retinue. The murmurs subside, then swell up again into chatter after you pass by, the lowered eyelids lifting into assessing looks.

The house is yours, of course. Sometimes, another would host the gathering, but the houses would inevitably be tied with your clan, either through choice or time. 

A laugh spikes up momentarily above the crowd. A voice follows after on its heels, guileless and agreeable to the ear. 

Your head turns to the right. You spot gold hair, stark against the usual black and deep brown hues. 

He lifts his eyes to yours, behind those glasses of his as always. 

You can't see if his expression changes, not in the light of this room. There is too much of it. 

His dips his head to the masked figure he had been chatting with, takes a scroll into hand and tucks it into his sleeve. 

He turns on his heel, slips through the crowd towards the other side of the room. 

You turn away, return a polite reply to yet another greeting. 

What does it matter what you see? 

What you hear, now, _that_ is of far greater importance. 

 

_

 

The elevator pings, your shoes meeting hard tiles as you exit. 

You hate the city. The noise. The itching swarms of people. 

You hate the meetings, most of all, the dull sameness of the usual clients. Yet, the pay is nothing to throw away. The clan secretaries had been politer than usual in their reports last month, which never boded well. 

Perhaps hate was too strong. Indifference may be a closer word. The city grabs people by the throat, draws in their breath and blood, and gives nothing back but careless glittering streets. 

Something here reminds you of a binding ritual, the same dizzy spark before the flood of power. It's different when it's not by your hand, you admit. 

You cut across the lobby, head towards the doors when you hear the rapid clicking of heels behind you. The woman has a phone to one ear, her hair swinging in a bob curled just past her chin. 

"Yu-chan! You have the posters? Natori's signing at 1:00. It's in the new cafe on Kita Aoyoma, right?" 

The woman hurtles out the door in a blur of movement before you can reach it, and she is gone.

You stand before the door where you see your vehicle outside. Kita Aoyoma. The traffic is not too bad this time of the day. 

His face would be stunned, certainly. 

How quickly would he recover his usual smile? Or would the surprise win over his poise?

You slide into your seat. Shake off the absurd idea as the car moves. 

You have your work. You will leave him to his. 

 

_

 

You are clever. You know you are. Not as experienced as some of the elders, true. But you did learn quickly. For all that, your expectations, the clan's expectations can be disappointed upon occasion.

The yokai cannot be used. So you will leave it behind.

You look back. Nothing else shows at the entrance. 

No one else. 

_He is a fool._

If it had been you, you would have waited until its thrashing cracked the cave open. The outside presents a better vantage for attack. 

Inside, he will have no space to maneuver. With him, nothing else but his own wits and an untrained boy with an injured servant. 

Bones would break as easily against rock as they would between the yokai's teeth. 

Nanase-san does not speak at your side as you go further, both of your steps sure on the rock and the downwards incline of the hill. 

He is not one of yours to protect. He never will be. 

You find yourself on a cliff's edge. You have cast the spell successfully, leaving a faint sting of spice on your tongue. 

You speak of your interest in power. 

You speak only to the boy. 

 

_

 

You know his name. 

As he knows your own. It had been a gift and a bait, alike. 

The truth now: the danger from that, if there ever was any, has far passed. 

You've known your role longer than he has, the forms, the gestures, the speech. A second truth: You may have known it longer. But he too, has always been a quick study. 

Tuck it away behind your teeth.

Keep it there.

Only use it if there is a need.

 

_

 

You've long outgrown the habit of curling against windowsills. You wouldn't fit properly now, tall as you are. 

Watching people was a harder habit to break. A necessary skill, even, for the leader of the clan. The ability to see did only make up half the required attributes of a Matoba head, as rare as the power was. A pity people were less easier to predict than ayakashi. 

Your feet press against the edge of the platform separating it from the hall. The first draft of crisp air is welcome after the heat of the rooms. 

Someone else's shadow is there, flat on the wood. 

You look up at the rustle of branches, the air seeming to grow sweeter with the sound. 

Your eye tracks the paper chain as it whirls high in a smooth, slow spiral. Higher. Higher still. 

It whips out of sight between the long limbs of the budding plum trees. A drift of petals fall in its wake. 

Another breath, and the shikigami dives from the air to his wrist like a faithful hunting hawk. 

Arrows, on the other hand, can only move forward. 

Look carefully. Aim true. 

"Natori-san. You've just finished a new assignment, I believe." 

He shifts to face you. The chain ripples, twists white against his fingers. 

You watch as a red petal slips from his hair, catches on his shoulder. 

It slides, soundless, to the floor between you both.

**Author's Note:**

> so once upon a time, jan wrote something like: _imagine matoba repressing a lifetime of sad natori feelings_ and then i just remembered that again today and this happened. stylistically, i think i can blame mirai. 
> 
> i could also have named this _matoba does not understand feelings: the fic_


End file.
